TW: suicide attempt, suicide
My grip on the rifle had gone too tight, like I needed something to hold me back from doing something reckless. Like dragging him into my arms and shielding him from ghosts that had already done their damage.
The wind moved again. Cold. Restless. Ivan didn't say anything else, and that silence—his silence—felt worse than any noise I'd ever heard on a battlefield.
He laughed after a while. Just a short, breathy thing. Forced.
"Shit. Sorry," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn't mean to dump that on you."
He always did that. Brush pain under the rug, wrap it in sarcasm. Pretend it wasn't bleeding.
"Why'd you tell me?" I asked, my voice low. Rougher than I meant it to be.
He shrugged. Still not looking at me. "Because I knew you wouldn't pity me. And because…" His voice faltered. "I think if I didn't tell someone, I was gonna explode."
I turned to him. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired sleep could fix.
